Meals

I remember my father sharing stories of his youth and heritage. Words spoken with a bittersweet mixture, held precariously between fond nostalgia and hurt. His parents, a Polish labourer and Italian Catholic, escaped to England as Communism and Fascism continued to rear their heads at the end of the war. They removed themselves from the dangerous suffocation of these forces and found themselves locked in another, in the country they were destined to meet. Identification documents were stamped indifferently with ALIEN, they were required to wear badges on their clothes in public - to make it known they were not the pure belongings of this land. It was the reason my grandmother was always given the rotten fruit and vegetables at the market with little power to object. Curfews were enforced and pray for those who found themselves wandering past the hour and encountered an unforgiving policeman.

My grandparents considered themselves better off regardless, but I cannot imagine the bitter compromises by which they were forced to live were easily forgotten. A life, uprooted and isolated but offered on a seemingly shinier platter, was passed onto my father’s upbringing. Caught in a cultural flux.

In the warm custom of her country, my grandmother would cook in order to share. My father would have friends accompany him home, loitering rather blatantly upon reaching his door. My grandma would invite them all in without hesitation and put a large pan of spaghetti to boil. Most contently, the schoolboys would break bread, leave their plates clean and give their thanks and farewells. The playground of tomorrow, however, would prove a very different territory. As if successful detectives rather than hungry children, the boys would flaunt their meal as proof: ‘He eats worms for dinner! Worms and all!’ Simple taunts that children can so unwittingly dispense. Soon my father didn’t have so many friends for dinner and his sister would hiss at him as they entered the school gates, ‘Remember, if anyone asks, we ate fish and chips last night!’

My own memories of my grandparents are vague; both having passed during my childhood, they remain spectres in the dusty past. Tales shared and spoken have formed my image of each. My grandfather, my Dziadiu, would drink glasses of vodka at dinner, the intoxication feeding his desire to retell the past. Here we go, he’s starting on about the war again. Tata, we’ve heard it all before! My mother, however, always enjoyed listening to her father-in-law’s recollections, for which I’m grateful. I know he was born and raised in Warsaw, before being forced into a working camp at the end of his adolescence. It was a hard and hungry life, regulated by strict SS officers. The alpha of the pack was a mean-spirited and cut-throat jack, though his anger was curtailed by the visits of a rich woman. She would totter into the camp, always accompanied by her beloved poodle. Her high heels clipping past the men at work. She’d paused and throw a sharp question of where the officer was to be found. Answer received and pooch in hand, she’d totter along in search of her quick shag.

One day, she made her usual routine through the camp and disappeared with the officer. Dziadziu, chopping wood outside the huts, noticed her come and go. Moments later, he spotted her poodle innocently wandering around the grounds. He was not the only one to have noticed. A few men emerged from their hut, whistling and clicking at the animal. It clocked its head at them simply. Hej, Wladyslaw. The men gestured to my grandfather. Get the dog over here. Dziadziu shrugged in agreement and coaxed the pooch near. Chodz tu, pieseczku! Come here little pup! The creature obliged and the men moved closer, kneeling to give it a fuss as my grandfather walked off in search of more wood. Upon returning a small while later, the hut showed no sign of life; presumably an officer had put an end to their fun.

He continued with his monotonous tasks, chopping, chopping, chopping. I wonder what may have crossed his mind in those quiet moments: perhaps thoughts of his family, an old flame or home comforts now so many worlds away. If he was ruminating, his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp Psst! One man had popped his head out from that same hut, waving urgently to Dziadziu. You hungry? Inquisitive - and, indeed, hungry - my grandfather nodded and was gestured over. Inside, the men were huddled around a large stove pot, one of the few possessions in their microcosmic lives. Steam rose from the pot. Broth gurgled from within. We have soup. Step closer! O Mój Boze, the smell! My Dziadziu felt a rise of the hunger that had become so habitual. Hands passed spoons and small bowls to share, exchanging food and gratitude. My Dziadziu gave smiles and thanks as a bowl was offered by the man next to him and he allowed his senses to awaken. Breathing in the rising steam, he eagerly took a sip. Then another, asking after the flavour. One man looked at him quite surprised. Pooch, of course. He spat it out abruptly. The pooch was declared lost.